Circumstances
by theSilverChef
Summary: "I want to stay. I want to put this behind us." A partnership in danger learns that every cloud has a silver lining. Slight Mike/Connie romance.


_**AN:**_ This is just a short one shot that's set post-"Dignity." One of my favorite episodes, but such an ambiguous ending! This fic was inspired by a certain ball on Mike's desk. For DaisyDay, fadedelegance, Rubirosarocks (I will convert you!), canterlevi, JustBecause2012, LTP-girl, and all of you other Cutterosa 'shippers alike...

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"_Work it out."_

Mike was the first to break eye contact. He shook his head in minor disgust and trudged back into his office. He heard the squeak of her chair and soft padding of her footsteps as she followed. "Mike-…"

"It's fine." He retrieved his bag from the floor next to his desk and began shoving manila folders and random papers into its dark recesses. He felt a searing anger and nauseating irritation. He knew that the conflict with Connie from the day before had been left unresolved, but he never thought she would react in such a _drastic _and _childish _manner. It was his own damn fault. He let his personal feelings get in the way of professional discretion. He'd been too easy on her for so long. He'd given her unrestrained scope and authority. She was sharp as a whip and the most passionate, dedicated prosecutor he knew, but that didn't change the fact that he was her supervisor. He had never doubted her aptitude until now. No, it wasn't doubt. It was disappointment that when he'd actually had to step in and pull rank on her, she had retreated like a toddler scalded by the stove. It shouldn't have been that way, and at any other time, it wouldn't have gotten so ugly. However, the whole damn case had been ugly from the start. Abortion, life, conception… It was one giant gray area that was bringing out the worst in everyone.

Connie sighed in frustration and moved a few inches closer. "This isn't about you."

"Ok." All he wanted was to be left alone with his thoughts. His thoughts and a glass of scotch. Arguing was his livelihood, but he was officially off the clock. There was no way in hell that he would be baited into anything pro bono.

"So, please don't make it about you."

He shrugged and shook his head noncommittally, tidying up his workspace. He scooped the random array of pens into a drawer and tossed his tie into a box on the shelf above his coat rack. Mike heaved his now overflowing briefcase from the desk and moved toward the door.

"Mike-…" Connie pleaded in defeat. She needed to fix this, _now_. She was angry with him, but he had to understand that there was a complicated myriad of factors to blame for her abrupt departure. He couldn't take full responsibility, and she wouldn't grant him that affront.

"Don't waste your time," he snapped. Her eyes darkened at his response, and for a brief instance, he felt regret. But, it was quickly replaced by fatigue. "You don't owe me an explanation. If you want to leave, here's the door. No hard feelings."

Connie swallowed the lump in her throat. Mike's words were cruel and spiteful, an indication of hurt. She wasn't proud of the fact that she was throwing in the towel, but it had to be done. The day before, when he'd stood in front of her and pierced her resolve with his blue eyes, she realized that she did not regard him as a figure of authority the way that she should have. When she found herself taking a walk to nowhere in particular, fighting back tears, she knew that things had to change. Your boss shouldn't make you question your resolve. Your boss _doesn't _make you cry. But a friend _can,_ and being patronized by someone you trust is an excruciating offense. She'd allowed herself to become permeable to sentiment and judgment, and she wasn't strong enough to handle the shit-storm of consequences. "I don't _want_ to leave..."

Mike considered her for a moment, visibly annoyed. "Then, don't leave." As an afterthought, he censured her further, "Or do you need Jack to make that decision for you, too?"

His callous indifference and malicious tone was infuriating, but he had a point. Running to Jack had been a shady and backstabbing move on her part. "I'll admit… that wasn't how I wanted you to find out."

How, then? An intra-office memo or e-mail? Perhaps a postcard?

"Well, now, that just makes everything better," he retorted, flipping off the light. His silhouette appeared in the doorframe, and Connie mused that it might have been a poignant sight if not for the circumstances. "Have a good night."

He set out for the elevator, leaving Connie alone in his darkened office. The yellow glow of the night-blanketed city spilled through the slatted blinds across the room. She turned and slowly walked toward Mike's chair, allowing herself to fall into the folds of its black leather. She chewed nervously at her thumbnail and contemplated her choices. She could transfer to White Collar and forever leave a bitter taste in the mouth of her colleague, or she could swallow her pride and stay. Perhaps she had reacted poorly and demonstratively, but there had been no right or wrong answer… Only her gut instinct and moral codes. If she sacrificed her integrity, how could she continue to work under the guise of protecting the innocent and securing justice for the City?

She switched on the lamp and sighed, studying the adornments along the far edge of the desk: an old stapler, a note pad, a baseball, a cricket ball, a blue NYPD ball, and… She picked up the last whimsical sphere—a ball encased by a map of Manhattan. Connie had always wondered what the story was behind it. The curiosity might have even been enough to make her change her mind about leaving. She laughed quietly to herself over the ludicrous idea. Then, something caught her eye. Someone had written on the surface of the ball: "You are here." Her heart grew heavy, descending slowly toward the ganglion of remorse that had replaced her stomach. It wasn't just someone's handwriting… It was Mike's, and it was the answer to her dilemma. _You are here. You belong here, Connie. _

The overhead light unexpectedly turned on, startling her. She looked up to see Mike, who seemed to be just as startled. Connie noted that his expression was more perplexed than angry, and she took it as implicit permission for her to remain in his chair. He set his briefcase on the sofa and approached the desk. "I forgot my phone."

Connie mouthed, "Oh…"

She scooted to the right slightly, allowing him access to the top drawer. He paused, looking at the object in her hand. Wordlessly, he tucked his Blackberry into his pocket and then took the ball from her grasp, brushing her fingers with his. "One of my old Law school professors had this thing on his desk. He gave it to me at graduation, and said it was a reminder to stay grounded—to help me find my way. I thought it was a piece-of-crap souvenir. But, a few years later, I lost a really rough case. I found myself questioning whether or not I had chosen the right career. Then, I found this thing in a box in my apartment..." He exhaled resonantly. "You have good days and bad days, and I suppose you could say that this thing has gotten me through the worst of them."

"'You are here'?" she questioned.

"I wrote that to remind myself that this is where I belong—that at the end of the day, there's nowhere else I'd rather be." Mike gazed at her softly, the animus from just moments before completely replaced by wisdom and candor.

Connie wet her lips, a nervous habit that she had developed at some point in her adulthood. It was time to make a truce. "I'm not good with apologies, and to be quite honest, I'm not sorry for standing up for my beliefs. But, I _am_ sorry for betraying your trust. I should have been straightforward with you. I should have come to you before I talked to Jack."

Mike nodded empathetically, setting the bauble map back on the desk. What could he say to that? She had blindsided him. The end of their partnership had never been a viable option to him, yet for one long moment, it had seemed entirely possible. He was now the one with the choice: beg her to stay—and risk the possibility of feeling—or accept that nothing lasts forever. "If you still feel that you need to leave, if that's what you really want, I won't stop you. Just know that… as far as I'm concerned, that desk out there across the hall… It will always belong to you."

Her sable brown eyes swelled with affection. A Mike Cutter apology was certainly worth holding one's breath.

"I want to stay. I want to put this behind us. Besides, prosecuting small-time embezzlement isn't exactly my idea of an exciting day at work," she laughed hesitantly.

"No... It would be a waste of talent," Mike smirked, admiring her features for a lingering moment.

"It's getting late," she reminded in a gentle, and weary tone.

"So, I guess this means I'll see you tomorrow morning, bright and early?"

Connie groaned, rising from her seat and stretching her back. "Early, but I don't know about bright. It's been a rough week."

"It's nothing that a good cup of a coffee can't fix."

"Are you buying?"

"Consider it my official peace offering." Mike led the leisurely procession toward the door. He grabbed his briefcase and tendered a reserved smile as Connie passed. Once more, darkness fell over his office.

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End file.
